


it's quiet company

by orphan_account



Category: Lost
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Please tell me a story about a girl who gets away."<br/>I would, even if I had to adapt one, even if I had to make one up just for her.<br/>"Gets away from what, though?"<br/>"From her fairy godmother. From the happy ending that isn't really happy at all. Please have her get out and run off of the page altogether, to somewhere secret where words like 'happy' and 'good' will never find her."<br/>"You don't want her to be happy and good?"<br/>"I'm not sure what's really meant by happy and good. I would like her to be free. Now. Please begin."<br/>— Helen Oyeyemi</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (you might need me more than you think you will)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buffysummers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffysummers/gifts), [otherromanticverbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherromanticverbs/gifts).



> There's nothing fancy to this one, I've just traded Sawyer's life for Juliet's because I am me. I'm gonna alternate between points of view. However I can try to inflict the most pain, you know. 
> 
> \- I figured M was the best blanket rating for two people so miserable (and, yes, also attractive), but if that's why you clicked this you're just gonna want to yell at me all the time. I have almost literally no concrete plans other than what Michelle made the mistake of telling me.  
> \- ~Whatever the case may be~ I'll try to warn at the start of chapters where relevant to stay safe/accessible.

Seven years are gone when she finds her way home.  
Somehow, she keeps herself out of the news.

She’s always known how to lie.

First, Juliet does what’s expected of her. She placates her sister by feeding her quarter-truths until she stops asking questions. She allows herself to be fussed over. She takes on a new research project. She comforts her mother when her parents, who haven’t been in the same room since she graduated high school, visit. She helps Julian with his multiplication tables and tells him what _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_ means. Patiently translates everything he wants into Latin for well over an hour, until Rachel gets home and they make dinner.

It’s the perfect picture, but Juliet is the one behind the camera.

She knows her lines and she’s convincing — cries in all the right places, has all the answers. And in some ways, she isn’t acting: she does, for the first time in years, feel able to breathe again.  
But none of her careful plans accounted for time.  
It’s fickle: she, of all people, should know that.

She can’t fit back into her life in Miami because it doesn’t exist anymore.  
_It doesn’t matter who we were, it only matters who we are._  
(Whoever she’d thought she was, she wasn’t.)

She does what’s expected of her until she needs a break, and then Juliet starts driving. In a rest stop the second morning, she picks up the most conspicuous refrigerator magnet— a map of Alabama reading “Heart of Dixie”— and laughs. It’s the ugliest thing she’s ever seen and there’s only one left, but there’s no one there to share or be the joke. Juliet isn’t superstitious and she isn’t especially sentimental, but she’s only human. 

She pockets the souvenir and walks out with it.

It isn’t really running she’s doing— she calls home every day— but she thinks of Kate, all the same.

She doesn’t call ahead because she doesn’t want a reason to turn around.  
(It’s equal parts underhanded and pitiful.)

She just keeps driving until she hits California; tells herself that she owes it to him to check in.  
Tells Rachel she’ll be back when she can.

* * *

 

The house is more Jack than anyone else, so it’s no surprise to Juliet that it looks deserted.  
It’s also no surprise when the door opens, though: thirty years and change and Kate’s never kept any friends quite so long as _Anger_ and _Self-Loathing_.

(Generally speaking, it’s best not to bring that up.)

For a minute, they take each other in, like each is trying to decide who’s real and who isn’t. When Kate, who looks as tired as Juliet feels, has nothing biting to say, she reaches for that goddamn magnet. Holds it out like a prize.

She says it must be terrible, being stuck in California.  
Kate says, “You paid money for that?”

Juliet smiles.  
She was good at dealing with her, once. It was hard work for little reward, but she never minded. For all her effort to the contrary, Kate is probably the most genuine person she’s ever known. There's much to be admired in that alone, these days; even more to look out for. Imagine being so vulnerable — she thought it would eat her alive. She’s so in control now that Juliet can’t remember what it’s like, if she ever did.

That’s how people like her survive.  
People like Kate never do, not if they can help it.

She takes the magnet and invites her inside, but looking past her Juliet can tell she’s sleeping on the couch.

She suggests that they leave, instead.  
Kate asks where they'll go, but they both know it doesn’t matter.  
The house is full of ghosts, and they’re only two of them.

She doesn’t even look back to lock the door.


	2. (i never thought about love when i thought about home)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy the romcom, everyone who voted on that phone call xoxo

They get a room at a hotel neither of them’s ever seen.  
Kate’s had a packed bag in the car for a month, just waiting on an excuse. She’d stuck around to make sure Claire and Aaron got settled, and they had — then they had gone with Carole back to Australia, like she knew they would.

(She’s learned a lot about it, the past few years, but she still finds herself surprised whenever someone leaves before she can.)

There’s plenty of room but when Kate’s checked the place out, she sits next to Juliet.

They were friends, once. She guesses they still are; doesn’t see why not. It’s been ages since they talked about anything they didn’t need to, but that was no one’s fault. You can’t own people, you can only love them, and Kate loved them both.

It’s simple like that, for her. You care about someone, you want them to be happy.  
Close or not, they looked out for each other. Close or not, Juliet is the only person who’s never had to wonder about her past, and she’s never used it against her. She’s never even brought it up.

There’s probably nothing Kate wouldn’t do for her.

It’s too quiet and Lord knows, she’s never been shy, but she doesn’t mind much. She just moves her hand to cover Juliet’s, relaxes a little when she takes it.

The last time they were this close, they had just buried Sawyer.  
They’d clung to each other all night.

* * *

 

At ten sharp, Juliet leaves to call home.  
When she comes back, she’s still on the phone — Kate asks if she wants privacy, but Juliet shakes her head.  
“My sister,” she explains, covering the speaker, “wants a word.” Then, directly into it: “She’s concerned that I’ve been _brainwashed_ into traveling with _axe murderers_.”

Kate thinks that’s pretty reasonable of Juliet’s sister, all things considered, but she takes the phone, anyway. People’s parents used to like her, after all. She knows how to make a good impression.

(Then again, they’ve rarely lasted, since the fire.)

She says hello and waits. Then, Kate hears:  
“This is Rachel Carlson—”  
She doesn’t catch anything else, because before she can think better of it, Kate says “Rachel? It’s Monica!”, as if she didn’t disappear from Miami without a word half a decade ago.

Juliet’s eyes widen in surprise, and she realizes what she’s done a minute too late.  
But Kate is smiling: on her end, Rachel is saying how she saw her on TV and just couldn’t believe it and _God_ , what a small world. She has no idea what Juliet’s told her, so she stays fairly quiet, letting Rachel piece together her own story. Then, finally, she asks about Julian.

Juliet throws their complementary Gideon Bible, knocking the phone out of her hand.  
Kate shrugs, vaguely apologetic, and tosses it back to her.  
“Should be fine,” she says, genuine. “Women like me.”  
Juliet—back on the line and trying to do damage control—looks skeptical.

Kate picks up the Bible from where it fell, open, and smoothes the pages.

* * *

 

An hour later they’re at the bar, and she’s telling Juliet all she can about her family: how she met Rachel through the cop she’d married, how they hit it off talking about Stephen King (Juliet raises an eyebrow to that; Kate says she saw a lot of movies, once). How she had watched Julian for her, sometimes, when there was nobody else. She was uncomfortable with babies, but he was a sweetheart. Went easy on her.

She left out how much she’d felt for Rachel when she found out her little sister left for Portland one day and never came back. She left out how many times she’d wondered, before they ever met, if she was anything like her. She figured probably not: she couldn’t touch a legacy like Juliet’s.

The way things have ended up, though, Kate thinks maybe they’re more similar than she thought.

They’re the last ones to leave before it closes and Juliet’s hardly said a word, but before they get back to the room, she thanks her.

Normally, she’d ask for what— she isn’t used to it and it’s fun, watching her lower herself like that— but tonight, Kate just gets the key and nods.


	3. (cover what we can't erase)

Juliet’s an early riser and Kate is the lightest sleeper she’s ever seen.  
She’s quiet — she’s had a lot of practice — but as soon as she unzips her bag, Kate bolts upright. Switches on the bedside lamp. She starts to say “where”, or maybe “why”, but then seems to decide she doesn’t particularly care. Juliet doesn’t turn around, just keeps trying to get an outfit together, like it's an ordinary day.

“Thanks for the light,” she tells her. “I’m sorry I woke you.”   
No answer comes immediately.   
When it does, it’s just “Juliet?”  
Once she has everything she needs, Juliet stands and faces her.  
“Sorry about that, too,” she says. “Go back to sleep.”

But the light doesn’t go back out once she’s changing, and after a minute she can hear Kate moving around the room. Juliet should have known she’d never listen to anything remotely resembling advice, and she tells herself so, smiling wryly to the empty bathroom. She thinks of Kate as she just saw her —  wild-eyed, hair a mess, so _small_ to have the presence she has —  and wonders, not for the first time, how they keep finding themselves together. It’s been years since the last night Kate crawled into her tent for comfort. 

Even the more recent memories belong to another lifetime.   
Especially those.

By the time she comes back out, Kate’s ready to go, though she wasn’t really invited.

* * *

 

For the first time, they leave in the same car.  
Juliet wonders, climbing into the passenger seat, if Kate doesn’t trust her to follow, now that she’s full on spontaneity. Now that she’s seen that she’s still out there.

She almost pities her but she’s positive that before too long, Kate will say something to cure that.  
For the time being, though, she tells Juliet she can pick the radio station, and Juliet just laughs. She’s seven years behind the times and even before, she hadn’t listened to much. All she’d been inclined to take when she’d left home were things that would remind her of it.

They find common ground in an oldies station, but neither of them is eager to swap war stories.  
_What’s done is done_.

She never asks where they’re going, because it doesn’t matter: for better and for worse, they’re the only people in the world. For as long as it takes. Juliet feels almost privileged, getting to live on Kate's time. She doubts anyone else ever has, kidnapped children exempt. 

“I lived here as a kid,” Juliet ventures, watching the desert pass them by. “California.”   
She doesn’t know if Kate’s eyes leave the road, but she knows there’s a smirk on her face.  
Some things, she isn’t having to learn at this late date.

“I never wanted to,” she says.  
Neither had Juliet.   
“My dad was in the military,” she offers. “We moved a lot when I was small.”   
Instead of taking the bait, though — _army brat_  or what-have-you — she sees Kate’s reflection turn to look at her, then back.  
“Must’ve been kind of relieved,” she says after a minute. “To stop.”

Juliet smiles thinly, remembering.  
“You would think,” she agrees. “The night we left, I deflated my mom’s tires.”  
She’s not sure if she’s ever truly heard Kate laugh before now, but she thinks she would remember. Being with her like this, it’s easy to imagine  — she can’t help but think  — why they had all loved her.

Juliet is in no mood for dwelling, but she isn’t jealous: she had cared for her before they’d even met, after all. Even on paper, Kate has a certain charm. It's a matter of fact. She’s never said as much and never will, but reading through her file, Juliet had hoped they could be friends.

They both could have used one.  
Neither of them wants to think about their similarities, though, so out of respect for Joni Mitchell she turns up the volume. Singing is safer than small talk.

_Marcie leaves and doesn't tell us_   
_Where or why she moved away_   
_Red is angry green is jealous_   
_That was all she had to say_   
_Someone thought they saw her Sunday_   
_Window shopping in the rain_   
_Someone heard she bought a one-way ticket  
And went west again_

At the next stoplight, after they’ve lost interest, Kate looks over at her and smiles.    
It’s a strange situation, not being antagonized; Juliet is grateful, but wary.   
More often than not, with her, this meant someone was going to cry.   
“Sorry I ever doubted you,” Kate says, solemn. “I had no idea how long you’d had your heart set on being a mechanic.”  
“You never asked,” she replies easily. "Sorry I assumed you'd be useful, growing up on a farm."


End file.
